


forget your perfect offering

by xpityx



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:09:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21557545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xpityx/pseuds/xpityx
Summary: Six weeks after that flash of blood on the ice, Zhenya was ringing the bell of Mario’s guesthouse and cursing himself for stupidity as he remembered Sid was currently wheelchair-bound. After a few moments Sid opened the door to reveal that he’d made his way up to crutches. Dressed in ratty sweats and a t-shirt with actual holes in, he looked about as miserable as Zhenya had expected.“Hey,” he rasped, sounding like he hadn’t used his voice all day. “You coming in?”
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Comments: 14
Kudos: 232





	forget your perfect offering

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the great Leonard Cohen
> 
> The first 2K wrote themselves and then this thing fought me tooth and nail the whole rest of the way. I also can’t even begin to tell you how little I know about hockey, apologies for any and all inaccuracies (if someone spots something really egregious, please feel free to let me know). SPAG checked by SlumberousTrash, story/character issues are my own.

  
  


They’d been one up against the Bruins at home in the last three minutes of the second period when Sid had gone down. Later, they’d all watch the hit in slow motion: Krejci smashing Sid into the boards, Sid slipping mid-motion, then Bergeron, who’d only been half a foot behind, careening into both of them and the bloody mess of Sid’s leg. 

Zhenya was on his feet and shouting with everyone else on the bench, but in the next second Bergeron had removed his helmet as was yelling for help, his fear visible even across the ice. They’d all gone over the boards then, ignoring the shouts of too many players. Flower, Tanger and Max were already there, crowded so tightly it was impossible to see Sid beyond them, but Zhenya had seen blood and tried to push forward, only to be held back by the medics and his own team as Sid was scraped off the ice and put onto a stretcher. The crowd had been quiet around them, and Bergeron was apologising over and over until his own teammates pulled him away. 

They’d finished the game, even won, although Zhenya barely remembered skating afterwards. 

Now, six weeks after that flash of blood on the ice, he was ringing the bell of Mario’s guesthouse and cursing himself for stupidity as he remembered Sid was currently wheelchair-bound. After a few moments Sid opened the door to reveal that he’d made his way up to crutches. Dressed in ratty sweats and a t-shirt with actual holes in, he looked about as miserable as Zhenya had expected. 

“Hey,” he rasped, sounding like he hadn’t used his voice all day. “You coming in?”

Zhenya nodded mutely, busying himself with taking off his shoes and jacket in the hallway, before following Sid as he swung himself forward, awkward in the space. 

“I bring new Call of Duty game,” he said, rather than asking any of the questions about recovery times that he wanted to.

“Cool, good job I’m not on concussion protocol, eh?” 

Sid tried to smile, and Zhenya tried to keep his face blank of any sympathy. Sid would not be grateful for it.

“And bring cake,” he added. 

“Well, you know where everything is.” Sid waved a hand towards the adjoining kitchen as he sat himself down in the middle of the sofa with a thump.

Zhenya, pleased to have something useful to do, set about putting the mini cheesecakes he’d bought on plates and poking at the coffee machine. Usually he’d just grab a fork and make Sid eat it out of the tray it came in, mostly because Sid whined about it the whole time he was stuffing his face, but Zhenya felt like he was out on the ice with thirty seconds on the clock: sawing at the puck and nothing going in. Plain white side plates and actual forks as an act of desperation in Operation Make Sidney Crosby Look Less Like A Kicked Puppy.

Sid eyed his tray of coffee and cake warily when Zhenya put it on the low coffee table with a flourish.

“What did you do? Did you sign with the Flyers?”

“What? No! Just…” Zhenya gestured again at the cake, “is special cake. Good for bones.”

Sid blinked at him for a moment, and Zhenya smiled to show he was joking. Sid snorted, leaning forward to help himself to a strawberry cheesecake, then casting a guilty look up Zhenya before adding a chocolate one to his plate as well.

It was Zhenya’s turn to snort. As if he hadn’t realised that Sid would want to eat at least two of them. 

“You get too heavy, leg cage collapse,” he advised as he sat down next to Sid on the sofa, gesturing to the awful metal contraption that was holding Sid’s leg together. He took a blueberry cheesecake, shoving half of it into his mouth in one bite then chewing it in Sid’s direction as obnoxiously as possible.

“Fuck you, you’re heavy.”

Zhenya shook his head sadly at Sid’s nonsensical chirp, swallowing and then eating the rest of the cheesecake. It really was good.

They played Call of Duty for a while, Sid baring his teeth anytime he took a hit and generally being terrifyingly competitive, which was usual Sid behaviour. They’d only been playing for half an hour when Sid managed to walk his character into a grenade. Zhenya didn’t see exactly what happened after that, too busy trying to make sure he didn’t suffer the same fate, but one moment Sid was throwing himself to his feet and shouting at the TV and the next he was hunched over, a hand on the side of the sofa for balance.

“Sid?” 

Zhenya stood carefully, unsure if he was going to have to catch him or not.

“You hurt?” he tried.

“Fuck off, I’m fine.” Sid gritted out, his voice uneven with pain, even as he tried to stand up straight.

“Don’t—you hurt yourself more, Sid. You sit and I go, in another room or go home if you want alone time.”

Nothing, but Zhenya could hear how unsteady Sid’s breathing was and prayed he wasn’t crying. He had no idea what to do with a crying Sid.

“You want me to go?” he tried. 

Sid shook his head, but otherwise didn’t move.

Zhenya took a slow step forward, then put a hand on Sid’s shoulder. Sid was not especially tactile, even on the ice Zhenya tended to wait for Sid to initiate a victory hug if he wanted one, but Zhenya _ was _ tactile, and it had taken a while for him to notice that sometimes Sid would tolerate an arm round his shoulders from Zhenya when he might shrug someone else off.

“Fuck, G. I just, I can’t believe I have to do this again, you know? I didn’t do anything wrong this time—I did it all right and still…” Sid swallowed something that might have been a sob, and Zhenya risked putting his hand in his hair and pressing a rough kiss to the side of his head. They stayed like that for over a minute, Zhenya able to feel Sid slowly calming down under his hands.

“I’m good,” Sid said eventually, and Zhenya let his hands drop. Sid leant to one side to retrieve his crutches, then made his way deeper into the house.

Zhenya sat down on the couch and, after a moment, helped himself to another cheesecake. He figured he deserved it.

Sid appeared again after five minutes and gave Zhenya a narrow-eyed look when he saw the empty cake box but didn’t mention it. 

“So, Monopoly?” he suggested, and Zhenya let out a heartfelt groan.

  
  
  


The thing was, the purest form of communication Zhenya ever got with Sid was on the ice. He half thought the purest form of communication _ any _of them had with Sid was on the ice: a no-look pass; an impossible redirect. The look of raw joy on his face was unlike anything Zhenya saw in any other circumstances from him. Sid celebrated with them all, of course, but even by the time he got to the bench to fist bump the team he was Captain again. Not that being Captain wasn’t integral to the Sid-ness of Sid, but seeing an honest, unguarded moment that hadn’t been filtered through all the layers of expectations he put upon himself was rare.

Which meant that when they weren’t skating together Zhenya went out of his way to reach for the same off the ice. During playoffs this basically resulted in Zhenya sending an inordinate number of hockey memes to Sid whenever he had three seconds between games and food to do so. 

Playoffs were always tough, but with the added pressure of talking to the media without Sid and his superior delivery of bland sound bites was worse. Then they were out, not even making it to the finals.

He had just about enough time to inflict himself on a much more mobile Sid before he headed to Worlds. Sid had been with them for all their games against the Rangers, on the bench and in the dressing room, answering the same ten questions from reporters over and over again. But it wasn’t the same as having him on the ice and they all knew it, the rookies glancing at Sid every so often as if he might disappear if they took their eyes off him. 

Once he was home Zhenya took 48 hours to lie on the couch and feel like shit, then texted Sid to let him know he was coming over. 

Sid was back at his own house, which Zhenya was choosing to take as a good sign. He’d had surgery about a month ago and looked a million times better without the crutches and the terrible metal cage on his leg. He was also feeling well enough to be annoying, hassling Zhenya about his workout routine in Moscow and the nutritional values of Russian food. It was nothing Zhenya hadn’t heard before, so he mostly tuned him out and grunted in the right places. Zhenya had privately wondered when he’d first arrived if North Americans’ brains seized up if their mouths stopped working. It was the only reasonable explanation. 

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes,” Zhenya lied with aplomb. 

“I spoke to Joe Theismann yesterday,” Sid said, which meant either he’d briefly given up nagging or the conversation topic had changed drastically while Zhenya hadn’t been listening. 

“That’s good.” 

Zhenya had no idea who he was talking about, but he found that if he just went along with the conversation then nine times out of ten it would become clear.

“Yeah,” Sid said, giving him a look that said he was onto Zhenya and his total lack of attention. “He told me to hold steady and that he was glad the surgery had gone well. Nice guy.”

“Sid, who is Joe Tesman?”

“Theismann,” Sid corrected, like it mattered. “He was a quarterback for Washington Red Hawks. Had a compound fracture in 1985 that ended his career.”

Zhenya stared at him, too horrified to reply.

“No, it’s cool. It was a long time ago and the surgery is much better now. I also got a call from Kevin Ware a couple of weeks back.”

“Yes, I know him: he play again, is fine now.”

Sid laughed like Zhenya was being the weird one: talking casually about some dude who’d never played again after having the exact same injury as he did.

“Yeah G, he told me about the place he did a lot of his recovery: I’ll be doing the same things he did to get better, okay?”

“Not talk about other people injuries any more, is bad luck.”

Sid just laughed again, the maniac.

  
  
  
  


Zhenya would never admit this to anyone but his first 24 hours back in Russia were always deeply surreal. Even after seven years he still had to actively concentrate to understand conversations between native speakers in English, so to be able to understand everything everyone was saying was just odd. It also meant that he had to re-learn how to tune people out, as his brain kept feeding him the exact details of the conversation the couple standing behind him in the passport queue were having. 

He did adjust though, but it took another week before he stopped delighting in being able to tell actual jokes again. His friends were used to his exuberance by now, and they accommodated his need to go out every night and drink and laugh until the early hours with a kind of fond tolerance. He missed his house in Pittsburgh, of course, and his team. He missed hockey and really good burgers. It was a soft ache, and something that he always put firmly to the back of his mind. One day he would only have one home again, but for now he had two and he planned to make the most of the sometimes bittersweet joy that was belonging to too many people, separated by too many miles. 

He also picked up, which was something he could do well enough in America, but in Russia the women were beautiful and direct, and the men had as much to fear as he did from being caught. More perhaps, as at least Zhenya had a second home to go to; had the means to protect his family if he needed to. Not that had any plans to go public with that side of his sexuality. Most of his friends knew, though he’d never told them explicitly. It was understood as a thing that a few people did behind closed doors, which was the only place he ever planned to acknowledge his taste for men so the attitude suited him fine. 

He had flown back to Magnitogorsk earlier than he usually would. After the horror of playoffs and the carnival of winning gold at Worlds he was more than ready to watch TV with his father and be scolded by his mother. 

Sometimes when he came to his hometown he had a brief moment of panic: he had never left the shadow of the Urals, had never made it across the Atlantic to the Penguins, to Pittsburgh, to his captain. Coming back this time made him wonder what they would have been without him: who’d have followed Sid out onto the ice? He selfishly hoped that in every universe that place was reserved for only him, and if he wasn’t there to do it then no-one would. 

It was good to be back, as it always was: he ate food so delicious he couldn’t believe he’d managed to live without it for so long and spent time with people who knew him better than anyone else. It was home. That was not to say that he wasn’t pleased to hear from his teammates: the group chat was always a source of amusement and he told himself that reading it counted as all the English practice he’d need until he got back to the States. Sid had turned into a communication black hole, but that wasn’t so unusual. Zhenya continued to send him memes, emojis and the odd picture.

What was unusual was being woken up by a call from an American number he didn’t recognise, about a week into his stay in Magnitogorsk.

“_<Yes?>_” He answered, groggily wondering why the caller ID wasn’t working, before remembering he was using his Russian phone.

“GOOD MORNING VIETNAM!” Flower yelled down the phone, which Zhenya thought was particularly unnecessary and also made no sense.

“In Russia, Flower. And, what the fuck?” 

“Yeah sorry, it’s from a movie. How you doing? I think it’s early as balls there - sorry. Couldn’t work out the time difference.”

“Why not ask Vero? Much more clever than you.”

“Fuck you, that’s why.”

Zhenya turned over and burrowed more deeply into his pillow, reminding himself that he loved his team.

“All okay? Usually text, not call?”

“Yeah, about that: you heard from Sid?”

He sat up, ignoring the shock of the frigid air. 

“No, what wrong?”

Flower sighed deeply. “He’s up in New Jersey: they’ve got special low G machines where he can train without putting pressure on his leg. He’s alone up there though: he told me Jack was with him, but Jack text me last week to ask how he was doing cause Sid had said I was going up to see him. I can’t though - Vero’s mom is in hospital and Tanger is busy with—”

“Is okay,” Zhenya said, cutting him off. “I come back little early, no problem. Go to New Jersey: kill Sid.”

“That’s kinda the opposite of what I need you to do, G.”

“Call me later, give details. Going to buy air ticket now.” He put the phone down on Flower’s offended squawk. His parents would be disappointed, but they would understand: his captain needed him.

  
  
  
  


Zhenya had spent enough time in New York to know two things: Newark airport was unreasonably massive and the car rental places were always fully booked out. He managed to negotiate for a ridiculous white SUV for two weeks then drove to the address that Flower had given him. Wilting with lack of sleep, he really hoped Sid was in. 

Zhenya turned the last corner at the GPS’s urging and wondered if Sid had gotten his text. He wasn’t even sure why he’d left it so late to let him know he was coming. Well, he did know: if he’d given him sufficient warning Sid would have told him not to come. It was harder to argue with a hasty text sent between planes at Dusseldorf International.

He and Sid had spent enough time together when injured that Zhenya was confident that he’d be able to negotiate whatever shit-fit Sid was throwing that meant he’d decided to tough it out alone. Anyone who’d spent any amount of time in Sid’s company knew that he hated being by himself for any length of time. It was something that had puzzled Zhenya when he’d first arrived and could do nothing but study his teammate’s behaviour. It wasn’t like he could’ve talked to any of them, save Seryozha, so he’d watched what they did instead. 

Sid shyed away from physical touch he didn’t initiate first; he was fucking obsessive about his sticks, his skates, his seat on the bus, and anything else he touched on a regular basis; and he hated his own company. It had taken Zhenya a while to notice the last one, as it wasn’t like he saw Sid alone in Mario’s guesthouse, crying into his grilled chicken salad. 

Sid would come out to bars and restaurants with the team, would come to every optional skate and any BBQ, but there was always a fifty/fifty chance he would sulk in a corner and ignore any attempts to drag him into a conversation. Sid hated being alone, but he wanted company to be on his terms. 

Zhenya was good at that: it reminded him a little of his Russian friends, in fact. Yes, they were all good hosts who would welcome him into their homes and feed him to within an inch of his life—even if with Lyova that meant ordering in—but you were also expected to be an adult and therefore able to entertain yourself. He often invited himself round to Mashenka’s then spent three hours reading a book in her tiny attic apartment while she worked on her laptop. Sharing space with Sid and his unpredictable appetite for conversation was no hardship for him.

The answer to whether Sid had got his text or not was given when Zhenya buzzed the gate to enter the block where Sid’s rented apartment was. 

“_Geno? _” said the tinny voice, disbelief clear even over the black and white video.

“Yes. Should check texts, Sid. Let me in.”

The gate slid back and Zhenya parked in what was probably some else’s designated space but he was too tired to care. He’d had most of his luggage forwarded to Pittsburgh so he just grabbed his holdall. A very polite idiot with minimal understanding of building security held the front door open for him with a smile, and by the time he arrived on the sixth floor Sid was making his way down the wide corridor towards him. 

“G, what are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

Zhenya just put his hands on Sid’s shoulders and physically turned him around.

“Show me where can sit down,” he demanded and Sid, ever polite, led him into his apartment, sat him on the couch and then went to make him a coffee.

“Seriously, why are you here?” Sid asked, sitting opposite him. He moved easily, Zhenya was pleased to note: his crutches nowhere to be seen. “I mean, you’re welcome of course, but this isn’t what you usually do.”

Master of the understatement as always. Zhenya took a sip of his coffee. He hadn’t quite switched over to English yet, and Russian crowded behind his tongue. 

“Where family? Mario?”

Sid looked down at his hands instead of at Zhenya.

“Told them Jack was with me.”

“Why do you lie?”

Sid stood abruptly and snarled, “I don’t know, G. Maybe because I wanted to be left the fuck alone for once.”

Zhenya nodded, seriously. “And how is that? Be alone?”

Sid looked out of the window for a long while, saying nothing. Finally Zhenya ran out of patience for Sid’s silent martyrdom.

“I can go,” he offered. “I rich, can get a flight back, or go down to Pittsburgh, annoy Max.”

Sid only shook his head. 

“I’m not going to be good company.”

Zhenya closed his eyes in relief. 

“Who says you ever good company?” he joked, but Sid just nodded like that was fair.

“Sid,” he added, helpless. Sid only shook his head again and got up, walking out and deeper into the apartment without looking at Zhenya.

“_<Good talk>_” he told the empty room, then went to go find the kitchen and make himself something to eat.

They settled into a routine or, more accurately, Sid explained his routine and Zhenya quietly scheduled his workouts around him. They ate dinner together and hung out in the evenings, but during the day they had separate training schedules, and for Sid that meant going to his physio appointments and training at the Sports Care facility just around the corner. He was better: he was walking fine and he was steadily increasing the weight bearing exercises. Neither of them discussed when he would be back on the ice because they didn’t want to jinx it, but Zhenya guessed Sid expected to be back with them by the end of the preseason games. He hadn’t been able to work out why Sid had suddenly decided he wanted to be alone: but he seemed happy enough to have Zhenya with him, arguing over the remote control and just generally existing in his space.

It followed therefore that three days before he was due to fly down to Pittsburgh it all went to shit. The first thing to worry about was the fact the Sid was limping a little when he came home.

“Okay?” Zhenya asked when he’d hobbled past the open door of the sitting room and into the kitchen. 

“Yeah,” Sid yelled, but Zhenya got up anyway, leaving the book he’d been reading to follow him. 

The second reason for alarm was the sight of Sid taking painkillers, a glass of water in his hand. There was a schedule taped to the wall in the kitchen, and had been since Zhenya arrived. Medication timings were listed on it because of course they were, but a quick glance confirmed that this was unscheduled.

Sid must have caught him looking at it.

“I’m fine, just went a bit hard today.”

Zhenya nodded, not wanting to argue the point, and waited till Sid got on a bar stool to start food prep instead of hip checking him out of the way like he usually did. 

The third reason for alarm was Sid calling him up to his room sometime after lunch and asking to go to the hospital.

“Hospital?” Zhenya repeated, stupidly.

“I rang my surgeon at St Lukes, he said I might have acute compartment syndrome and I need to get to the hospital ASAP.”

Zhenya had no idea what acute something or other was, but _ hospital _ was all he needed to understand. 

“Okay, need crutches?”

“Yes, and the packed backpack in the closet.”

Of course Sid had an emergency hospital bag. For a moment he thought of Mashenka’s hospital bag that she’d had by the door towards the end of her pregnancy and had to fight off a bubble of inappropriate laughter. 

God, he hoped Sid didn’t have whatever the hell he thought he had: he didn’t deserve this, he was getting better for fuck’s sake. Sid got himself into Zhenya’s rental himself, most likely in spite of rather than due to Zhenya’s hovering. 

Whoever Sid had spoken to had obviously been busy in the time it took for them to get from the apartment to Morriston Medical Centre, as there was a nurse with a wheelchair waiting for them at reception. Zhenya was deposited in a private waiting room with Sid’s bag while Sid was wheeled deeper into the hospital. He called Jen the second he sat down. Zhenya thought perhaps Mario and Sid’s parents also needed to be contacted, but he was hoping Jen would volunteer for that. 

“Geno?” Jen answered on the first ring, and Zhenya was briefly overcome with relief at hearing her voice. 

“Yes, sorry to call on weekend. Sid in hospital, he call his doctor and they tell him to come because of pain. Said might have something but can’t remember name, sorry Jen.”

“Okay, was he conscious and breathing?”

“Yes! Yes, and talking, just in pain.” 

“Okay, G - I was just making sure. You did great. Did Sidney say he’d spoken to Dharmesh or to someone at St Luke’s?”

“At St Luke’s.”

“Okay, I know who that is. Have you contacted anyone else?”

“Ah, no,” Zhenya replied, unwilling to admit he didn’t want to be the one to do that.

“Okay, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll give Dr Vyas a call and he can liaise with the team at St Lukes and also… I guess you’re at Morrison, right?”

“Yes.”

“Great. I’ll let Mairo know once I’ve got a better handle on the medical side of things, and he can decide if we need to be contacting Sid’s parents, although I’d much rather we had Sid’s consent before we do that.”

“Yes, good idea. You always have good idea, Jen.”

She laughed briefly.

“Chin up, okay? Sid’s in good hands.”

“Thanks, Jen.”

She rang off and Zhenya tipped his head back against the cold concrete wall behind him. 

  
  
  


The Sid delivered back to him some 8 hours later was even quieter than the Sid he had dropped off. He was also back in the wheelchair, but only for the short journey to the car. 

Thankfully Sid seemed skilled at negotiating the apartment on crutches, but that left Zhenya standing uselessly in the hall, unsure what he was supposed to do to help. He hadn’t said a word since he’d gotten in the car, simply handed Zhenya his prescription which Zhenya had obediently gotten filled at a 24-hour pharmacy while Sid sat in the car: presumably in the same frigid silence he was maintaining now. 

Zhenya went and made a sandwich, taking it up and knocking on Sid’s bedroom door. Sid grunted from the other side of the door, but when Zhenya entered he was sitting on the side of the bed, head in his hands. Zhenya stayed where he was for a moment before putting the plate on the nearest surface and easing himself to sit on the floor in front of Sid.

“Tell me what can do?” he tried.

Sid pulled his hands down his face and slid to the floor, his bandaged leg bracketing Zhenya. 

“It’s just a small setback,” Sid said to a point somewhere over Zhenya’s shoulder. “They think it might add another month to my recovery, but it wasn’t a major operation and I only have to wait for the wound to heal before I can get back to weight bearing on it.”

“Sid, not media. Can tell me if not okay.”

Sid seemed to shake himself a little, looking directly at Zhenya. 

“It’s just—” His face crumpled and Zhenya had a moment of pure horror when he realised what was happening, then Sid was bent over and sobbing. Zhenya put his arms around him, somewhat awkwardly as it put them almost in each other’s lap, but Sid balled a fist into the front of Zhenya’s t-shirt so that was that for Zhenya moving. He could never say no to Sid under normal circumstances, and certainly not when he was crying in his arms. Zhenya rubbed his hand up and down Sid’s back, murmuring nonsense in Russian.

“I’m sorry,” Sid said, once he’d calmed down a little. He wiped his sleeve over his face, but he was still a mess. Zhenya had cried a little too, unable to be anything other than distraught in the face of Sid’s sorrow.

“No need, Sid. Always here for you, anything you need, I’m give.” Zhenya was sure that the rest of the team felt exactly the same way, but there was probably no convincing Sid of that.

“No, I mean, yes for breaking down on you, but I thought I would be back with the team for the start of the season.”

Zhenya prayed briefly for patience and the ability to bear the martyrdom of Sidney Crosby.

“Sid, you ever apologize for be hurt again, I tell Flower.”

Sid finally looked directly at him again, looking more shocked than the mild threat warranted. He reached out and touched Zhenya’s cheek.

“G?” Sid asked, voice hoarse, “Are you crying?”

Zhenya shrugged, unashamed of his tears.

“You score, I score. You cry, I cry.”

That seemed to make sense to Sid and he nodded.

“I’m going to, er, I’m going to go clean up.”

Zhenya took the hint, getting up from the floor and giving Sid a hand up to his feet. He resisted the urge to hug Sid again, as he was giving off very strong_ done with being comforted _ vibes, so Zhenya wished him a good night and left, closing the bedroom door softly behind him. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Zhenya liked men and women, but women most of all. His flexibility in his sexuality had never been a problem for him: the men he liked—small and lithe—were so far from descriptors he’d place on any of his teammates that he’d never had to worry in the locker room about staring too long. He also had no plans to settle down with a man: too much trouble for him and his family for one, and he had no intention of being a poster boy for You Can Play. 

He had always thought Sid was probably gay, but it was not the kind of thing he could just ask, and anyway, what did it matter? Zhenya could always scratch the itch in Russia when he felt like it, where everyone had something to lose if they were caught. Here or in Canada, where people wore rainbows in the street and came up with an ever-expanding vocabulary to describe what they liked and who they liked to do it with: Zhenya couldn’t imagine wanting to be so open about such things, couldn’t imagine Sid wanting to be either. 

Basically it had never come up in conversation, not in seven years of friendship, which was why it was the furthest thing from his mind when Sid came into the kitchen on his crutches, sat down at the breakfast bar and announced that he had something to tell him.

Zhenya put down the pancake mix he was stirring and looked at Sid, expectantly. Sid, for his part, got up from his stool again and leant one hip against the kitchen island, a crutch under his left arm and his side to Zhenya, and stared into space for a count of ten seconds.

“Sid?” Zhenya asked, nonplussed at the odder-than-usual Sid behaviour.

“Yeah, just—”

Zhenya watched as he abruptly took a step forward then seemed to remember he was on crutches, frowning down at them before turning and swinging himself back to the counter, where he once again stood staring out the window. Zhenya picked up the bowl and started mixing again: one, because the mix was starting to separate and two, because Sid might have a better time if he didn’t have Zhenya’s whole attention on him. It went against everything his parents had taught him about listening to people, but this was Sid: you had to let him approach things sideways sometimes.

“So, I guess you already know that I’m gay.”

Zhenya shrugged and carried on mixing, he could just about see at the edge of his vision that Sid was tapping the side with one finger.

“No, I’m not know. Maybe guess, but not important. I like women, like men too. Is okay, Sid - not going to tell anyone, not going to be weird.”

Sid stopped tapping and sat himself down on a bar stool once again, so Zhenya thought it was probably safe to look at him. Sid was still looking out of the back doors onto the balcony though.

“A couple of the guys know: Flower, Tanger. And Mario, of course. I just: you’re here, and you—you’re good at knowing when I can stand to be touched. But. I thought maybe if you knew you wouldn’t. So I had to tell you. In case you don’t.”

Sid was quiet then, as Zhenya translated that into something understandable.

“Sid,” Zhenya said once he’d made sure he understood. “Okay to hug you now?”

“Uh, sure. If you want.”

“I’m want,” Zhenya confirmed.

One of the many, many things that pissed Zhenya off about America is how much they crowed about being progressive when he heard the same shit on the news about gay people and immigrants as he did in Russia. You Can Play, gay marches through the street and rainbow stickers, and Sid was still worried that maybe other men might not want to touch him if they knew he was gay. 

Sid was sitting down so Zhenya couldn’t do a bro hug, but he didn’t really give a fuck about that. Sitting on the bar stool, Sid was only a few inches below where he normally came to on Zhenya for a hug anyway. 

He stepped back after a moment, more worried about freaking Sid out with his unpredictable tolerance for touch than anything else.

“What you making?” Sid asked once Zhenya had taken up the mixing bowl again.

“Pancakes. Not for you though.”

“Hey, why not?”

“Ass too big, break bed.”

“Fuck you, that doesn’t even make any fucking sense: you only weigh like 3 kilograms more than me!” 

“Eat pancakes, weigh 10 kilograms more: break bed.” 

“Jesus, you are such a dick. You better let me have some of those.” Sid was frowning, like Zhenya was really going to deny him the food he was making.

Zhenya sighed, obnoxiously loud. 

“Okay, Sid. But I tell Mike on you.”

Sid ate eight pancakes with bananas and maple syrup and Zhenya tried not to be too obvious in his delight. Sometimes he really was his mother. 

  
  
  
  


Having Sid’s desire for men confirmed shouldn’t have made the slightest difference to Zhenya, but somehow he found himself thinking of it at odd moments over the next few days. 

The day before he was due to fly down to Pittsburgh he made his way to the kitchen, blearily rubbing his eyes. The light was off but Sid was sitting at the breakfast bar, in nothing but a pair of sweats with a cup of coffee in front of him.

Zhenya was pretty sure he wasn’t upset, but he still had to battle with his urge to go up and hug him. He settled for walking up beside him and throwing an arm around his shoulder. Sid leaned into him for a moment, then jerked away.

“You’re not wearing a shirt,” he accused.

“You not too.”

Sid was still frowning at him though, so Zhenya added. “Don’t worry, you not my type.”

“What is your type?” Sid asked.

“Small, little. Bossy.” 

“You’re saying I’m not bossy?” Sid asked, then blushed bright red.

Zhenya just rolled his eyes at him then went to battle with coffee maker until it belched out an espresso.

“You?” He asked, not expecting an answer.

“Er, kinda the opposite.” Tall and stacked, he took that to mean.

“You pick up hockey players then?”

Zhenya didn’t think it was possible for Sid to blush more but he was: all the way down his throat and chest was pink. 

“I’m not sure that’s a question I can really do justice to,” Sid replied in his talking-to-the-media voice, and Zhenya cracked up. Sid joined in, laughing at his own joke like the loser he was. 

It was a slightly surreal conversation to be having, especially after seven years of friendship, but in fairness Zhenya had never mentioned his Russian hookups to Sid. He was glad to see Sid laughing. There had been no hint of despair since he’d broken down the night they’d got back from the hospital, but Zhenya knew better than to be fooled. Sid would play hockey on a broken foot if anyone let him. Not that he was reckless, he just didn’t consider his own pain particularly important in the overall scheme of things. It drove Zhenya mad, but if he pushed Sid to admit that he was still struggling he’d get nothing but a blank stare in response. 

“You be okay when I go tomorrow?” he tried, putting some toast in the toaster and pretending to search in the fridge for something while Sid went quiet behind him.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine, G.”

“Okay. Promise to ask parents to come stay with you?”

“No! I don’t need—” Sid visibly took a breath before continuing, “I’m getting better, and I don’t want to bother them.”

The toast popped up behind him, but Zhenya ignored it.

“Sid, tell me why you send everyone away.”

Sid stared at his hands, a stubborn set to his jaw.

“Please,” Zhenya tried.

Finally Sid glanced up, his shoulders dropping.

“I just, when people come stay with me, it’s because I’m too sick to play,” he held up a hand when Zhenya started to interrupt, “I know that’s not true, but that’s how it feels. So, if I sent everyone away then I could pretend that I was just training, that there was nothing wrong with me and I just, I needed that.”

“I understand,” Zhenya replied, and a look of relief passed over Sid’s face. “But if you don’t ask someone to come stay with you, I will call Mario and tell him I have to miss training camp to stay with you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Zhenya didn’t say anything, just let Sid see how serious he was. He didn’t give a fuck if Sid was pissed about it: he couldn’t risk leaving Sid alone and something like last week happen again. 

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Sid said, but he sounded resigned rather than angry.

Zhenya rescued the toast, adding butter and jam and placing the plate in front of Sid, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to his forehead as he did so.

“Thank you,” he said, and Sid mumbled something undoubtedly unflattering under his breath and ate his toast.

  
  
  
  
  


Neither Bergeron or Krejci were on the lineup for their preseason game, which was probably a good thing, the way Zhenya felt. He spent every second on the ice bullying his way first to the puck and then to the goal. The rest of the team seemed to take his attitude to heart, and they won 5-1, aided by a Sid-worthy goal from Kris, who batted Zhenya’s pass out of the air, off the goal post, and then back in again under Rask’s left skate. The team had lost their shit on the bench.

The mood in the locker room had been buoyant: a win and they’d been told that morning that Sid would be back on the ice with them by the end of the week. All of which went some way to explain why he was so shocked when he came out of the guest locker room to find Bergeron talking seriously to Flower and Max.

“Bergeron,” he snarled, taking two steps forward and walking directly into Max who stood in his way.

“Calm down G, he came over to ask after Sid.”

_ “<Fuck your mother. I’m going to shit in your mouth!>” _Zhenya spat over Max’s head, too angry to even bother with English.

“I’m going to leave you guys to it,” Bergeron said, nodding at Flower like they were friends before walking down the corridor and out of sight.

_ “<Fuck him, I’m going to pull out his fucking eyes!>” _He kicked a chair that had been placed against the wall, making it skitter across the floor like a frightened animal. 

“Wow G, don’t hold back, let us know how you really feel.”

“Why you defend?” he demanded.

“Geno, you’re being unreasonable,” Flower said in a tone of voice even Zhenya knew he shouldn’t argue with. Meanwhile, the rest of the team had started crowding the doorway behind him.

“Everything cool?” Duper asked.

“G?” 

“Yes, everything cool,” he confirmed, nodding at Flower. He shouldered his bag again and headed towards the bus that would take them to their hotel, hoping that would be the end of it. Flower was not so easy to shake though, following him as they made their way up to their rooms after dinner.

“You want to tell me what that was about?” he asked, sitting down on Zhenya’s bed and putting his feet up without waiting for an invitation.

“Come in Flower, make self at home Flower. So welcome,” Zhenya grouched, closing the door and dropping heavily into a chair.

Flower just continued to look at him as if he had all the time in the world. It was the same give-no-shits look he wore when Zhenya was lining up a slapshot against him in practice.

“Am worried about Sid, not heard from him,” he admitted.

“His mom is with him, G. You know how he gets: he can only communicate with a certain number of people at any one time, especially when he’s stressed.”

Zhenya shifted in the chair, trying to get comfortable. He didn’t know how to put into words the unease that had trailed him since leaving Sid in New Jersey. He thought that seeing him so upset was what had worried him, but he knew Sid well enough to understand that he’d probably been equally devastated the last time he’d been off the ice: the only difference had been that Zhenya hadn’t personally witnessed him falling apart.

“He is very upset in New Jersey,” he finally admitted.

Flower sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed so he was facing Zhenya.

“He’s always upset when he can’t play, G. I know it’s hard to see, but that’s just ‘cause we love him.”

Zhenya nodded down at his hands, clasped loosely between his legs.

He heard Flower stand but didn’t look up till he came over to clasp Zhenya on the shoulder.

“You’re a good friend, G, just try not to kill anyone, eh?”

He patted Zhenya’s shoulder once more then thankfully left.

Zhenya went to take a shower and tried to tell himself that Flower was right: what he felt for Sid was nothing more than any good friend would feel. He thought again of Sid’s hot skin under his arm when he’d hugged him; or his acceptance of Zhenya in his life when he’d been pushing everyone else away. Sid was addictive: he gave you a glimpse of what was happening under the smooth surface of his ferocious self-control and Zhenya wanted more. He wanted to know what Sid looked like sleeping next to him, what he looked like tucked under his arm and giggling at his own jokes. He wasn’t even sure it was discovering that Sid was into men than had made him re-evaluate the way he felt. Seven years was a long time to know someone and he’d wrongly thought he knew Sid just about as well as most people ever got to. Seeing the depth of feeling he’d always known lurked under the surface but had never been able to reach; being _ trusted_, that’s what was killing him.

  
  
  
  
  


Pretty much everyone on the team would drop gloves for Sid. Yes, he was an annoying asshole who would follow you round the locker room telling you exactly how you had fucked up a pass and what you should have done instead. He could spend twenty minutes whining about a bad call to the guys _ who had been on the ice at the time. _ He was also incredibly hard on himself; understood when others fucked up; and he took some of the worst hits on the ice Zhenya had ever seen. Everyone on the team was protective of Sid, it was just the way it was, so he thought nothing of Sid texting him two days after the Bergeron incident to ask him over, other than being pleased that Sid was back in Pittsburgh and talking to him again. The thought he might know about Zhenya’s more-than-friendly thoughts about him never even crossed his mind: he’d seen women basically lap-dance Sid and Sid _ not notice_. 

He picked up two pizzas on the way, Call of Duty in his bag in case Sid still hadn’t bought the new game, and whistled out of tune all the way to the front door. 

Sid answered the door in sweats and a t-shirt he must have been sent as part of a promotion: it had cartoon penguins on it and looked like it’d been printed on the thinnest cotton in existence. Sid said something that might have been _ hello _ through the apple he was eating before leading the way to the kitchen. He looked like he’d gotten most of his weight back, his thighs filling out his sweats and his gait easy as he led the way to the kitchen.

The didn’t talk about the game or Sid’s imminent return to the ice by mutual agreement, instead Sid updated Zhenya on what sounded like every game Taylor had played since last summer in between shoving his disgusting BBQ chicken pizza in his mouth. Zhenya had meat-lovers, like the normal human being he was. He downed half a litre of water after, surfacing to find Sid staring at him with the look he got before he criticised a play.

“What?” Zhenya said, warily.

“Flower said you nearly took Bergeron’s head off after the game.”

Holy mother of god, Flower was such a fucking telltale. He wouldn’t have lasted five seconds on a Russian team. 

Zhenya shrugged, buying time while he tried to work out whether Sid was pissed or not. Sometimes he seemed to almost appreciate the evidence the his team really did give a fuck about him, and sometimes he’d spend ten minutes quoting NHL checking rules and regulations at you.

“I’m really okay you know, I’ll be playing next week.” Sid said, turning to shove their pizza boxes in the recycling. 

Zhenya watched the curve of his biceps as he attempted to force the boxes into a space smaller than a bread box. He couldn’t help the feeling that rolled through him: fond and exasperated and just so fucking happy that Sid was going to play again. That they would get to play_ together. _

Sid had straightened up and turned back around while Zhenya had been staring at him like an idiot.

“Geno,” he said, “you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“What you mean?” Zhenya tried, his pulse jumping in his throat. There was no way that Sid _ knew _. 

Sid came round the kitchen island to stand directly in front of him. Zhenya tried to work out what he was supposed to do with his hands with Sid standing so close.

“I’m going to…. Just, don’t freak out okay.”

Zhenya had about a second to try to puzzle that out when Sid leant up and pressed dry lips to his own. It was over in a moment, then Sid was just looking up at him, blank face firmly in place.

“Sid?” he asked, something like terror in his veins, unsure what this was even about. Did Sid want him? Had he somehow found out how Zhenya felt and this was some sort of test?

“Shit, I’m sorry: I thought—” Sid stepped back, looking how Zhenya was feeling.

Zhenya reached out to take him by the upper arms, holding him in place. 

“Stay there, I’m think,” and took a breath, attempting to remember how English worked, which proved far too difficult so he went for simple:

“You want me?” he asked, and Sid nodded, his cheeks flushed.

“Okay, that is good. I want you.”

Sid nodded again, licking his lips, so had to Zhenya kiss him, moving his hands down to lightly sit on Sid’s waist. Sid shuddered a little under his hands and that was hot enough that Zhenya deepened the kiss. Sid made a soft sound at the back of his throat, then ran his hands up Zhenya’s sides, under his t-shirt, and any thought of going slow disappeared under his firm touch.

Zhenya shoved his hands down the back of Sid’s sweats and groaned when he discovered he wasn’t wearing underwear. He couldn’t resist kneading at Sid’s ass: two solid handfuls of muscle, Sid making ridiculous breathy sounds the whole time which did nothing for Zhenya’s self control. He’d meant to have some kind of conversation, perhaps suggest they go somewhere that wasn’t the kitchen, but Sid was hard in his sweats and Zhenya was pretty sure has was en route to coming in his pants like a teenager. Which was surprisingly hot, hot enough that the serious chafing he was getting from his jeans was far from his mind as Sid panted into his shoulder, his hips hitching forward in a way that suggested it being beyond his control. 

“_Fuck_,” Sid gasped, hips stuttering. Apparently Zhenya was very much into making Sid lose some of his much vaunted control. He stayed where he was for a moment, his face pressed into Zhenya’s shoulder. Then, just as Zhenya was starting to worry that they were about to have a very awkward conversation, Sid dropped to his knees.

“Sid—” Zhenya started, a hundred percent meaning to tell him to get off his knees or to at least go somewhere with cushioned flooring but Sid was far too efficient. By the time Zhenya had the right words lined up Sid had taken his cock in his mouth and that was the end of any higher thought processes in English.

“_<Your mouth is filthy> _,” was the most he could manage while trying to keep from thrusting.

Sid pulled off with an obscene sound.

“You can fuck my mouth if you want to, I can take it.”

And with that devastating revelation he went back to sucking Zhenya’s cock like he was going for gold. Zhenya felt they needed a little more discussion than that before he started with any face-fucking, but he did allow himself to thrust a little. It wasn’t long before he was warning Sid of his imminent orgasm, then realised the lack of response from Sid was probably because he’d done so in Russian.

“Am—am—,” he managed, but Sid moaned enthusiastically and there was only so much Zhenya’s frayed self-control could manage. He came so hard his thighs trembled. 

He hiked up his pants over his ass then did a controlled fall onto the the cold kitchen tile. Sid looked wrecked: reddened lips and his hair standing up in tufts. Zhenya felt his dick give a weak twitch at the sight. 

“_<Come here>_,” he murmured, pulling Sid half into his lap and kissing him. Zhenya was happy to stay there for a while but Sid soon pulled back with a grimace.

“I er, I think I need a shower.”

“I help,” Zhenya offered. 

Sid blinked at him and Zhenya had no idea what he was thinking.

“Sure,” he said untangling himself from Zhenya and getting to his feet, a blush across his cheeks as Zhenya followed him upstairs.

  
  
  
  
  


Sid endured Zhenya’s insistence on washing him down in the shower with a slight smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. Zhenya couldn’t help but steal a few kisses but wasn’t about to start anything heavier where they could slip. His recovery time also wasn’t what it had been when he’d been 17. 

Zhenya suggested a movie once they were dressed again, Sid in clean sweats and a hoodie Zhenya was sure he’d owned the entire seven years he’d known him. Sid started out on the other side of the couch, but scooted closer when Zhenya lifted his arm in invitation.

“I’m pick,” he announced, commandeering the remote and flicking through the endless channels. 

“I’m not watching Terminator 2 again.”

“Why not? Great movie, good lines. I’m use on ice all the time: I’ll be back!”

Sid snorted, then turned his face into Zhenya’s shoulder.

“Okay?” Zhenya asked, when Sid remained where he was.

“Are we really doing this, G?” he asked, slightly muffled.

Zhenya’s heart did something ridiculous in his chest at the hesitancy in Sid’s voice. 

“I want to. You want to?”

Sid took a big breath and let it out slowly, turning to face him.

“Yeah, G. I mean, I want to try.”

“How you know I want you?” he asked. He thought he’d been as subtle as fuck, but apparently not.

Sid shrugged as well as he could while tucked under Zhenya’s arm. Zhenya wasn’t sure how long Sid was going to tolerate being cuddled, but he planned to enjoy it for as long as it lasted. 

“You looked at me the way guys look at me in a club sometimes. You’ve been doing it for a while but I wasn’t really sure until Flower rang me to tell me what happened. He said he’d never seen you so angry.”

“Want to kill him.”

Sid huffed. “Well, though I’m honoured that you’re willing to go to jail for murder one for me, I kinda need you to play hockey with me, G.”

“That all you need for?” Zhenya asked, after a moment to decide if he was stupid enough to say it out loud of not.

Sid looked up at him.

“G, I know how dangerous this could be for you: more than for me.”

Zhenya shifted a little, uncomfortable having to discuss the terrible underside to Russia when he felt he had to spend so much time defending his country to people who saw only their former enemy.

“Yes, very bad, maybe more than you know but, I sometimes think I’m more Russian than Russia: they take my passport, tell me must stay: I go and I make my country proud, win gold medal. Now Russia say that men can’t be with men, is wrong, but I say: I love who I love. This is true Russia.”

“Geno,” Sid said, wide-eyed, and Zhenya ran his garbled English back through his mind again. 

“Too soon to say, I know. But I think worth risk, you worth risk.”

Sid kissed him chastely, looking intent. 

“Okay. We’ll talk about how we keep this to ourselves, and maybe in a few months we can think about telling our families, but… It’s worth the risk to me too. I know it’s not the same thing, but I don’t want to be out G. I’m not ashamed, not of me, not of you, but, the attention…”

“Is okay, I understand. I not want to be out, parents not know either. Well, maybe Mama guess, is very clever, but never talk about boys with them.”

“So it’s okay?” Sid asked, looking a little unsure.

“What, not come out? Yes, not want Sid, you not want too.”

“No, I mean, this, us… it’s okay?”

Zhenya couldn’t help his grin. He reached out to trace the line of Sid’s eyebrows, his strong jaw.

“Yes,” he said, “is okay. Is best.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on [Tumblr](https://xpityx.tumblr.com), but if you're just looking for writing updates then I use my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/xpityxfanfic) for those, and I'm kinda writing a Sid/Geno/Anna fic at the moment...


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